<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Wishing you were somehow here again by artysmartypigfarty</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097282">Wishing you were somehow here again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/artysmartypigfarty/pseuds/artysmartypigfarty'>artysmartypigfarty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown &amp; King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Musicalbabes, beetlebabes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:21:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/artysmartypigfarty/pseuds/artysmartypigfarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Folks Carry on and That's that...You're Invisible when you're sad. </p><p>Grief was a funny thing. It didn't matter how much time passed from an incident. Grief struck mercilessly tearing at a soul reopened every would that time attempted to heal. No one understood, No one knew what to say.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice &amp; Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wishing you were somehow here again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Full warning: This is an angst piece unabashedly based on my own experience. It was deeply cathartic to write and I hope you enjoy. I recommend following up with fluff like I'm going to.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Grief was a funny thing. Poignant, taboo, and all-encompassing when it first rose in life. It acted like a weed, choking out every happy feeling that had existed before its arrival. It was somatic, it was fragrant. People had a lot of opinions on grief. There were a lot of ways you were supposed to grieve. There were stages of grief. There were excuses for how grief made you act, made you feel. There were hushed whispers and empty offers to ‘call if you need anything.’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was when it was fresh. Grief never aged well. Grief was the bit of cake left out on the counter without anything to cover it. You had to let yourself feel it all at once. Let it encompass every facet of your life because once your time was up, it wasn’t supposed to bother you anymore. You were supposed to put aside, show strength, and move on. It was ok to feel sad on holidays, anniversaries, birthdays but not every day. Not years later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘They wouldn’t want that.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Think of the good times. You had with them.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It gets easier with time.’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The problem was that it just made you sicker, darker. It created this hunger, a need, and a yearning to scream into the void at the most random of moments. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grief was a phantom that lurked in the shadows. It waited, lived on surfaces for when you were vulnerable. Once it found an opportunity, it struck. Latching on, pulling on the soul, digging its claws in and threatening to tear what little shred of sanity you’d been able to build apart. It didn’t matter how much time passed; it was like the beginning of the process again. One moment normal, the next gasping for air in the grocery store as your throat closes with tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no comfort. There was no sympathy for one who continued to grieve after the allotted time. Questions asked only to be retracted. Sympathy offered with a dismissive air. Judgment, discomfort, facial expressions that narrated the unsaid. ‘You’re still upset about that? Its been years” People didn’t understand, People looked away leaving the mourner lost, alone and invisible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lydia thought she was done feeling invisible. She thought the feeling would be left behind as she left her 17th summer. She believed that the mournful expression of persistent lost unheard, unwelcomed, uncomprehended would be validated. She craved for someone to understand but could not say the words. She didn’t have the words to express what she didn’t understand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How was she to explain the fact that the loss of her mother felt as fresh as it did the day it happened? How was she to tell that despite all the efforts, all the therapy and support that thoughts still rose of taking her own life? How did she describe the feeling of despair as it clawed at her soul, weaving tears and lies into a picture of her reunited with her mother? It was a farce. Her mother didn’t come to her. She’d been to hell and back, and still, she’d not returned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She needed to scream. She needed to give vent to these emotions by herself, where no one could here hear and make her feel better. There was a sense of peace in being alone. Were she alone, she could feel as sad as she might like. There would be no decorum, no efforts made to wipe her tears. She could exorcise this demon as sobs ripped through her throat. She’d be able to focus. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The decision was made the second she got home from school that day. Her father was still at work, likely starting to transition to his car, where he’d run more meetings over the phone while he fought through traffic living the American dream. A prominent businessman, crushing the economy from his car. A bug in a machine. Once she was home, she slipped up the stairs, making not a sound as she darted into the kitchen and grabbed the spare keys. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, but her skin itched, urging to leave. She had to move before she could get caught. Before anyone saw the tears on her face. Before…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Babes, Was wonderin’ when you’d be back from school today.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her shoulders tensed as her husband floated into the room. He materialized behind her blocking her path as she tried to move back out of the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Babes...we goin’ on a trip or something?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She struggled to speak. The monstrous effect of grief stole her voice, plunging its dark claws into her throat and robbing her of speech. She didn’t know how to explain, how to say what was happening in a way that he wouldn’t interfere. Hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around. Amber eyes bore into her face, narrowing in on the tears that ran in rivulets down her cheek. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened” gruff voice softened. Lydia felt the weathered skin of his thumb brush the tear away as it fell down her cheek. “Did that fuckin bitch Brewster say somethin’ ’cause I swear to -” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not Claire,” she muttered, shaking her head as she tried to twist out of his grasp. He kept a firm hold on her shoulders. Respectable, gentle, but unyielding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘What happened” his voice harder. He forced her to look at him. Who the hell was he to ask, he wouldn’t understand. He killed his mother. He couldn’t possibly understand the feeling of missing one. She already knew how he’d respond. He’d raise his brows at her and scoff, making an offhand comment of how terrible mothers were. He’d mock her for still being upset about that even after time moved on. She could just hear his voice in her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What Babes, chasing into the Netherworld only to have her ignore you wasn’t enough?’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anger bubbled up in her, responding to a comment he hadn’t even made. She snarled at him and twisted out of his grasp. She shoved him away and moved to step over the threshold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“None of your goddamn business Beetlejuice, leave me alone,” she hissed and slammed the door in his face, racing down the steps to the car. It was the Maitlands old car, came with the house as Charles had a soft spot for station wagons. Latent desires for suburban life in a wall street tycoon. She threw herself into the driver’s seat and tore her wedding ring off, putting it in the cupholder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stipulations of his return were clear. The marriage bound him to Lydia; he was able to exist in the house and could follow her off the property if she wore her wedding ring. If she didn’t wear it he couldn’t leave, not without risking sandworms. She didn’t need him interfering, him or anyone for that matter. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and turned the key in the ignition. Peeling out of the driveway at full speed so that the car got some air as she drove down the steep driveway. She didn’t look back to see if he was watching, him or anyone else. One hand on the wheel, she threw the phone into the backseat to discourage any impulse to answer if it rang. She couldn’t explain herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Here she thrived on adrenaline. Driving past the speed limit as she merged onto the highway. She swerved around cars and got into the fast lane, her combat boot pressed against the gas pedal. She knew where she was going. It wouldn’t take her long to get there, least of all at the speed she was traveling. Tears stung at her eyes as they threatened to fall. Wait, she had to wait till she was there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Digging her teeth into her lip, she bit down to keep any sounds from escaping her. Her finger slammed on the car radio, finally finding a rock station and blasting the music so loud it threatened to burst the speakers in the station wagon. Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne, Marilyn Manson filled the car, she screamed along to the lyrics, her voice cracking and breaking as she kept her eyes on the road, and her hands on the wheel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t tell how long it took to get there. She was so focused on arriving that she blocked out the world and sense around her. By some miracle, she hadn’t crashed. The drive was a blur; all that met her now was the eerie silence of the graveyard. Death was silent; only the rustle of leaves could be heard over the sound of her boots crunching across the dry grass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t need to check in with anyone. She knew exactly where to find her. Up the first alley, turn on the right, stop by the tree. Third stone from the road, black marble, gold trim. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Emily Helena Deetz</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>December 30th 1980 - May 23rd, 2019</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Always in our Hearts</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Praying hands clasped together in a circle over the name. Flowers could be stored there. She had no flowers, Just herself. Her strange, unusual fragmented self. It was cold in the graveyard, the chill of October settling in. No one knew she was there. She didn’t tell her father or even her mother’s family she’d be in town. It was a place that held memory, and yet she could exist behind the glass of anonymity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her knees struck the cold ground first. Then her hands, then her forehead. Cold stone brushed across her skin, bringing a chill like when Beetlejuice kissed her. The land was hard, unyielding as dry grass wavered slightly in the wind. She curled her body, pressing her cheek against the stone of the gravestone like it was her mother’s breast. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Words pressed into her cheek, indenting her pale skin with letters as tears began to fall. She draped her arm over the stone, digging into the cold dirt on either side of the grave. It fought to let her in, but soon the earth coated beneath her nails. It was the closest thing to a hug she’d ever be able to give her mother. At least until the afterlife, perhaps not even then. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shuddering breaths that quickly gave way into open sobs. It felt like vomit, coursing raw grief clawed at her throat as she heaved it out of her body. Desperation to go back to the time when this wasn’t her reality when her mother was there. When they stood at her grandmother’s funeral and looked down at the stone, not 3 feet away, she never thought she’d be here. She never thought she’d be on the other side from her mother, unable to feel her touch or anything again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Mom,” she said in a shaky voice, her fingers moved from the grass to trace the letters in her name. Dirt beneath the chipped black nail polish on her hand. Her voice was muffled, her cheek squished against the stone. “Dead Mom, I need a little help here,” her voice wavered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t be talking to myself here. It was you who made me whole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyday life’s moving past me. I try my best to be happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I can’t move along, You’re embedded in my soul. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m in denial. I don’t want to feel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at life around me, and I don’t know what’s real. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why didn’t you come, Why didn’t you care, WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand balled into a fist colliding with the stone like a petulant toddler. Another choked sob, she pressed her lips to the grave where she struck. She brushed at the stone like it was a wound like she would if a child had an injury. Soothing cooing and simpering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I miss you, Mom, more than I can say. How am I supposed to do any of this without you? How am I supposed to go on? Go to school? Be on my own? You missed my wedding for fuck's sake! How am I supposed to live without you here?” Her voice rose, hoarse in her throat, keening, wailing, and shrill in pitch as desperation leaked out of every pore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you see me? Do you hear me? Are you even hearing these messages, please Mom, please, I asked you for a sign before, but I need one now more than ever! I need to know that you’re proud of me, that you care! That you’re ok even though I have no assurance otherwise! Please, mommy, please, please, please.” she cried out, her mouth left steamed marks on the stone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something shifted, something touched her. It was cold on her finger, a metal band on her ring finger, silver twisted around a garnet stone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cold strong hands gripped her and turned her over. She didn’t see who it was, she already knew. Her fingers clung to his suit, filthy tattered and covered in moss. Her body shook with sobs, inconsolable as she fought between herself, she didn’t want to be pulled away, she couldn’t be pulled away. She wanted to die here, die in this field cold atop her mother’s stone. To be a frozen gothic angel that would eventually decay and fade into the wind. He was going to take her away, take her home, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t. Let me be,” she groaned, reaching up to strike him. She wriggled free like a cat sinking its claws as she slithered from his lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She thrashed in his grip as she fought to return her face to the cold stone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” came the voice, soft, broken like her own. “I’m not letting you be, I’m not leaving you alone. I’m here and I ain’t goin’ no where” she felt his lips brush her head, pressing a kiss there. He shifted his hold on her. She lay draped in his lap, her arm extended, hand on the gravestone as the other clung to his tightly. He pulled her close to him. His free hand stroked her hair. A kiss nuzzled into her hairline. She didn’t have the energy to fight him. Her lungs choked for air as the magnitude of her sorrow stole life from her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Breathe kid, c’mon don’t make a dead guy teach you” He smirked at her attempting levity “Bit insensitive to talk about it here since everyone here can’t. In and out scarecrow, we don’t have to leave, but just breathe, ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just Breathe, why was that so hard. Lydia forced herself to fill her lungs with the cold October air, taking slow deep breaths. His hand gently rubbed small circles onto her back, murmuring soft words of comfort. She couldn’t make them out but felt the faint rumble of his voice steadying her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time passed, it may have been minutes or hours Lydia wasn’t sure. She kept stroking the stone, hiccuping as she got out the last of the tears she’d been holding. He allowed her to simply lie there, not asking more from her as she grieved. She knew he didn’t understand what she was doing. He didn’t understand the longing she felt to be with her mother, but over time, he learned to sympathize. What mattered to Lydia mattered to him. Above all, he was willing to do whatever would spare her from pain. It killed him, knowing this pain was not one he could eviscerate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wherever she was in the Netherworld, Emily was inaccessible. It filled him with anger to see his Lydia torn apart by the desire to speak to her, just to have one small brush of contact from the beyond. He searched for her, asked Miss Argentina on more than one occasion to look her up, but all efforts came up fruitless. Wherever Emily was, she didn’t wish to be bothered and refused to change her mind, no matter how desperately her daughter cried out. He couldn’t do anything about it, the only thing he could do was attempt to care for the breather in his arms—the breather who appeared in genuine danger of getting frostbite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey kid,” he began placing a tender kiss on her mess of short black hair. It was in a state of disarray, bits of grass and dirt from where she’d lay on the ground. “I know ya don’t want to move, but I’m worried yer gonna freeze to death” He couldn’t offer her any warmth but refused to let her go. The graveyard shadowed in darkness, the weak autumn sun having set hours ago. A chill hung in the air, a promise of the winter yet to come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” Lydia croaked her fingers tracing over the date of her mother’s death on the stone. The hand that held his felt like stone, The tips of her fingers pale as if they threatened to turn blue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice sighed. It was just like his wife to stubbornly refuse help. Shedding his striped jacket, he wrapped her small form in it. She protested the movement, wrestling against him. He reflected it was like dressing a cat as he grabbed her wrist and forced it through the sleeve. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goddammit Lydia, I don’t want you to freeze,” he swore, finally getting her in the jacket. He liked it when she wore her sheer sleeved little black dresses but might have to hide them from her if she was going to keep up this bullshit. She still felt cold, thinking he waved his hand, so a bundle of blue flames appeared beside them, offering warmth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Contented with the warmth that started to return to her body, he moved his hands back to her hair, softly raking his dirty fingers through her short raven tresses. Her sobs quieted, now she just breathed softly tracing the letters in her mother’s name. He felt the exhaustion building in her body, her limbs going weak as she sagged against him. She was going to fall asleep like this. He’d wait for her to ask to go home. He didn’t understand what she was trying to accomplish but recognized it was a primal need for release. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the slow sound of her breathing indicated that she was asleep. He shifted her position in his arms cradling her tiny from against him as she slept. He brushed her hair out of her eyes watching the simple rise and fall of her chest. She’d be alright, He’d make sure of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure how he got here, he’d tried every avenue he could to get out of the house once she’d taken off. With the removal of the ring he was powerless to find her, he tried and failed to step off the parameters, sandworms lurked seeming to lick their chops, daring him to step off in search of her. He went to the roof, watching for her return.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He struggled with feelings of rage and fear. What the fuck did he do to be yelled at? What the fuck was her problem? He knew something was off. The look he’d seen in her eyes was one he recognized. It was that reckless look she got when she was upset. That look that almost sent her flying off the roof. Dread filled him that she might attempt something like that again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the fuck was he supposed to do? He couldn’t get to her. He didn’t know how to find her. He had to try. He couldn’t risk anything happening to her because she was too stubborn to tell him what was wrong. Lydia was the only being that mattered to him. She might view her life as disposable, but to him, it was precious. He stepped off the roof before he could stop himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He appeared again on the road sensing her tracks while he kept an ear out for sandworms. She’d gone south but to where? She was still alive even if he couldn’t tell where she was. He was prepared to search for her, stopped only when the roar of a sandworm erupted behind him. He turned to find a full-grown worm, rearing its head back, ready to strike. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he swore, looking for an escape, a way to dart away. He didn’t have time for this shit he needed to find Lydia. At that moment the ring on his finger burned, she’d put it back on. He could see her. “Perfect timing Lyds,” he muttered as he twisted in space just as the sandworm lunged forward to devour him. He wasn’t prepared for the scene that met his eyes in the graveyard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was prepared to yell at her for scaring him. Prepared to chew her out for lashing out at him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. (that he could remember) Instead of a defiant Lydia waiting to argue with him, he found his bride broken, screaming on the ground on top of a gravestone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter how exasperated he was. How angry he was at her for scaring him, or potentially placing them both at danger. He could fight with her later. There were other wedding vows to attend to at that moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking down at her peaceful face, he reflected that anger lessened from when he’d first appeared in the graveyard. His hand cupped her face, gently thumbing at the skin on her cheek. Predawn light filled the sky. The fire still burned on, bringing warmth to the body in his arms. She stirred finally, eyes fluttering open as she looked up at him. Her brow knit in confusion before a complacent smile crossed her lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Beej,” she offered. Her fingers found his looking at the ring once again on her finger “Couldn’t just let me be, could you?” she asked, arching a brow as she wriggled it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did, didn't come after you” He lied. She didn’t need to know about the sandworm incident “Came as soon as you put the ring back on” He tapped the stone on her finger. She looked at him, puzzled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t...I left it in the car” Comprehension dawned on both of them at the same time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They turned and looked to the gravestone beneath them before looking back at each other. The answer was clear. A plea was made for a sign, a desperate call for an ounce of comfort to reconcile with the tremendous loss of life. An answer was given. Emily might not have been able to be with her daughter, but there was another specter who could. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beetlejuice chuckled, adjusting his hold on Lydia so she could sit up more but still held her close in his lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So Lyds, why don’t you tell me about your old broad” He jabbed his head in the direction of the stone, “I think I like her already.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought in the comments!! See ya next time Breathers.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>